Letters in the Sand
by Thrice Seven Once Eleven
Summary: Slices of history, related one-shots.  What Aziraphale and Crowley were doing, and when, and what they saw and thought and said.  And what they didn't say.
1. Chapter 1

This is the first fic I've done in the present tense. I like it, at least for this particular one – present tense gives the story a different tone that I think works well with the subject matter. I'll probably use it again, at some point.

Another thing – I will probably be using this fic as a kind of dumping ground for future "where and when in history" fics. I don't think there will be any discernable plotline or particular order to it; the chapters will end up as they end up, slices of history.

Aziraphale and Crowley do not belong to me; they belong to Pratchett and Gaiman.

* * *

><p><strong>Letters in the Sand<strong>

_May, 1970 C.E.  
><em>_Ohio, United States of America_

Aziraphale finds himself enveloped by the crowd, which has gathered three times in as many days. It has not devolved into riots and tear gas and screams, so far, and he breathes a silent prayer that the demonstrations will remain peaceful.

Prayers aside, he is doubtful that the relative peace will linger much longer. Ill-tempered rumors flit around him, nasty mosquitos whining messages of horrors to come.

He makes his way to the edge of the mass of people. He isn't sure what he's doing here, or what he had hoped to accomplish by going to the Colonies. In England, he might have known what to do, what to say, how to do and say it (he might at least have had an _idea_), but the culture is different here—and on campus, among so many young and angry people, Aziraphale feels especially out of his depth. He can hardly move among the students without at least one of them looking askance at his clothes, he cannot speak to them without raising eyebrows at his antiquated turns of phrase and accent. He could adopt an American one if he really _wanted_, but he _doesn't_ want to, and he shouldn't have to.

He finds a tree and leans uneasily against it. He is on the outside looking in, as he has always been.

Nearby, the laughingly tortured wail of a harmonica cuts through the evening. The musician is halfway decent, but Aziraphale flinches on principle (and tries to push away the memory of the smell of blood in burning hair). Thankfully, it's only a little while before a guitar joins the harmonica and adds a bit of balance, and a shorter while before a drum joins in to form a little impromptu trio. They aren't really playing anything in particular, but the beat is steady and the players are actually more than competent, and Aziraphale pulls out of his memory and begins to relax. He turns and sits with the tree at his back so that he can watch them.

The man with the harmonica has dark hair that fluffs out from beneath his cap, and mirrored aviators hide his eyes and alter the shape of his face. He is very tan; his sunburned forearms contrast with the guitarist's pallor—the guitarist plays with his eyes half-closed and his lips parted, curling around his instrument and straightening and moving as if the music plays _him_ instead of the other way around.

Aziraphale does not object to this kind of music when it is played well, and the musicians are enthusiastic, and for a while he watches the guitarist's hands flicker-flick over the strings. It's hypnotic, in a way.

But then the beat changes, very slightly, a twist of the harmonica brings a softer beat on the drum and makes the guitarist bend his head to the strings, and Aziraphale does not so much recognize the tune as he _knows_ it. It falls like a stone in the pit of his stomach, in the back of his throat, and the harmonica player is turning in Aziraphale's direction and the light catches the planes of his face, and _oh_.

Oh.

Well then. Small wonder Aziraphale didn't know him straight off; he has never seen Crowley like this, all faded blue-jeans and plaid shirt unbuttoned over tight tee-shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His most recent memories of Crowley are of a sharply-dressed gentleman with a sardonic smile. He has never wondered what Crowley would look like as a—well, an _American_. Crowley does love his stereotypes, he thinks they're funny.

Of course Crowley has recognized _him_. Aziraphale can tell by the way his eyebrows tweak up at angles, the way the shadows around his sunglasses deepen, that he is laughing. Long brown hands cup around the crying harmonica and hide Crowley's grin, but it is there all the same.

_Many are the hearts that are weary tonight, wishing for the war to cease_, and Aziraphale leans his head back against the tree and closes his eyes. _Many are the hearts that are looking for the right to see the dawn of peace_, and he remembers John, who fell at Wilderness, and William, who died afterward of infection from a leg wound gone bad, and Marie. He remembers blood in burning hair.

He sits without moving for nearly four hours, until long after the sun has set, until he feels a tremor near his feet and knows that someone has just lain down next to him. His lips curve to a smile.

"I almost didn't know you."

Crowley huffs amusement through his nose and mouth. "You _didn't_ know me."

"Yes, very well," says Aziraphale, with the same inflection that Crowley uses when he concedes with a good-natured _Yeah, okay_, and he opens his eyes and looks down. Crowley is stretched full length on his back in the grass with his head on one arm, clutching his cap. A new-lit cigarette rests between the fingers of his free hand. Aziraphale regards him quietly for a moment. "I approve of your sunglasses."

"Thanks. They're new."

"What happened to the old ones?"

"Still have 'em," says Crowley, swallowing his Ls, rounding his Rs. He gives Aziraphale an up-down look that speaks volumes. "See _you're_ not bothering to blend in."

Aziraphale sniffs. "Honestly, I don't see why I should bother."

"You just don't like it here," Crowley tells him, and touches the cigarette to his lips. Smoke trails up from his nose.

Aziraphale glances at him, then lifts the little paper roll from Crowley's hand without asking and drags on it.

"Yeah?" says Crowley, sounding mildly amused.

Aziraphale exhales, more of a sigh than anything else, and hands it back. "Yeah," he murmurs. He sits, feeling Crowley breathe, long and low, in the grass at his side. After a while he notices something, blinks, moves a little, tilts his head. "I smell smoke. Not yours."

"We torched a building a little bit ago." Crowley waves his hand in a vague that-a-way motion. "ROTC."

Shocked, Aziraphale twists around and sees flickering light blazing hot over the tops of the science hall and music center. He turns back, feeling sick, remembering protestors on fire in the streets of Saigon. "Who is _we?_" he asks, as his stomach turns.

"Me and some of the guys."

Aziraphale is silent.

"No one got hurt," Crowley adds, very very quietly, almost an afterthought, and Aziraphale breathes. He lets his fingers brush against Crowley's hand for the briefest of instants as he takes the cigarette again; he knows better than to actually thank Crowley for something like that, but he means it. Crowley, surprisingly, doesn't seem to mind.

"I don't like this," after a pause. "Why do they?"

Crowley moves a shoulder in a lazy shrug. "They're human," he says, as if it explains everything. It might. "What d'you expect?"

Aziraphale shakes his head. "I don't know. Not this, I think."

Crowley hums agreement. A breeze carries more clouds of smoke past, but under the tree, the chaos of the crowd feels muted and dull. Crowley finishes the cigarette and flicks the butt away. It glows briefly in grass that is already wet with dew. "What time is it?"

Aziraphale checks his watch, puts it back in his vest pocket before he speaks. "Half past."

Crowley nods and rolls to his feet in one smooth movement. The back of his shirt is rumpled. Bits of grass cling to his hair. He reaches down for Aziraphale. "Time to go. Now."

"What—"

"Have you eaten?"

"No, I—"

Crowley grabs his arm and pulls him to his feet. "Good, great, c'mon, we're going to dinner."

Aziraphale lets Crowley drag him away. Long years of experience have taught him not to argue with Crowley when he says 'Time to go' in that particular tone of voice.

* * *

><p>The night that they disappear into is quiet, off-campus. Aziraphale is struck, as he is at times, by how apart he and Crowley are from it all—as if they are watching everything in slow motion, from a long way off. Car headlights in the night catch individual globes of spray thrown up by the hiss of tires on wet pavement. There are few people out, but the Pufferbelly is still serving. As if it would dare <em>not<em> serve Crowley in one of his moods.

Fifteen minutes later Aziraphale registers that traffic outside has increased exponentially since he and Crowley went into the restaurant, and that Crowley is looking over Aziraphale's shoulder with a pleased expression on his face during pauses in the conversation. He turns around to look out the window.

"What's out there?"

"National Guard." Crowley's face is twisted in a smile, his tone over-bright.

Aziraphale stares at him. "Surely not," he says, but he isn't really surprised. If anything, he's surprised it took them so long to reach this point, but he has a job to do, and so he says, "Surely they wouldn't call soldiers just for a protest that—got a little out of hand."

Crowley starts to laugh, narrow shoulders shaking. "Aziraphale, they _lit a building on fire_."

"_You_ lit a building on fire," Aziraphale says, softly accusatory, and reaches for his glass of wine. He looks at it. It tastes different, somehow, or maybe it's just that _he_ _feels_ different, so far away from home, and being away from England has colored his perception of how wine tastes. Of course England is home. Just like Japan had been home, once, just like Israel, once. Just like Heaven, once.

Crowley shrugs, as unrepentant as always. "So I helped a little, so what? It was bound to happen sooner or later."

Aziraphale sighs. "Yes, I suppose it was." He looks at the glass in his hand again, then sets it abruptly back down. He looks up at Crowley.

"I have to go."

Behind his glasses, Crowley blinks. Aziraphale can tell. "What d'you mean? Back to England?"

Aziraphale shakes his head. "Don't ask questions when you already know the answers."

Crowley scowls and attacks the remains of his potatoes. "Don't know why you're bothering, at this point. They've got things well enough in hand over there, seems like."

"I have to do _something_."

"Don't see why you have to do _that_."

"I'm not you, Crowley," says Aziraphale. "I can't just sit back and watch from here until I'm ordered. I need to help." He pauses, his eyes on the thin line of Crowley's mouth. "_Xin lỗi._"

Crowley brushes the apology aside. He knows. He understands the need to do _something_, _anything_, but has never understood the angel's need to get involved in the thick of things. Meddling overseas is how Crowley prefers to 'do something.' Sometimes it even works. "Well." His voice is flat. "If you must, you must."

"You know I must," says Aziraphale. He stands. "You'll get the bill, won't you? I'll take care of it next time, I promise."

Crowley won't look at him, looks out the window instead, watches another fire truck scream past. Red flashing lights flail around the restaurant. "Try not to die this time."

Aziraphale half-smiles. "I'll do my best, dear."

Crowley is annoyed, initially, but two days later when the riots pick up and gunfire rattles across the green and everything goes south, he is glad Aziraphale is not around to see it.


	2. Chapter 2

This chapter's existence is due partly to an unholy love of _Queen_ and partly in tribute to the full-on panic attack I had when I realized what _The Prophet's Song_ was really about. Why yes, I am pathetic, why do you ask?

Anyway. I was listening to it (because I am now 21, and the panicking occurred when I was 14) and I realized that this song would have a whole 'nother set of implications for our favorite angel and demon. It is midnight and I am overtired.

Az and Crowley copyright to Pratchett and Gaiman. Bow before them, for they are great. _The Prophet's Song_ copyright to Queen and some other guy whose name escapes me.

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><p><em>November, 1975<br>__Liverpool, England_

Crowley is in high spirits, partly because the concert has been excellent thus far and promises to continue to be excellent, and partly because of the expression on Aziraphale's face.

"What?" Crowley shouts over the crowd when _Son and Daughter_ ends. "You like it?"

Aziraphale casts him a disparaging look and rolls his eyes. Crowley laughs.

A moment later, he realizes that Aziraphale has been saying something, and turns. "What?"

"I said, I like _certain aspects_ of it," Aziraphale tells him. "And isn't this that group that your car is sweet on? It's been a while, but I think I recognize the style."

Crowley winces. "The Bentley is not _sweet on_ Queen; it's just got good taste in music. Like me."

He can't quite make out Aziraphale's response, but perhaps that's for the best. He grins and redirects his attention towards the stage.

Two minutes later, the only reason Crowley's face has a grin on it is that he's holding it there. If he lets it fall, he thinks maybe he will break in half.

'_I see no day,' I heard him say, 'so grey is the face of every mortal.' _

_Deceive you not, the fires of hell will take you, should death await you. _

_The earth will shake, in two will break, death all around all around around around…_

Blinding light, a searing heat, a purpling cloud that rises above the city with red-orange death at its heart. Crowley had been in France at the time of the bombing and heard of it from other soldiers and then on the radio, but he only realized what had really happened when he saw Aziraphale, who _had_ been there and seen it and had to help clean up the aftermath. And Crowley was only able to comprehend the magnitude of it because he knew from experience that it takes a _lot_ to traumatize an angel.

_Summoned by your own hand. _

_Oh, oh, children of the land, quicken to the new life, take my hand_.

Sunrise traces over lines of artillery and infantry in ranks as far back as any human eye can see. Crowley is not human; he can see further. He sees no end to the madness. And there was war in Heaven.

_People, can you hear me?_

* * *

><p>It is only after the song ends and Crowley is once again capable of movement and coherent thought that he realizes Aziraphale is no longer beside him. Crowley stands and leaves. He's had enough for one night.<p>

He finds Aziraphale quite by accident, hiding in the shadows behind the stage door. The angel is white, and his hands are shaking, and he glares up at Crowley. "Did you know?" he demands. His voice is very sharp, almost hysterical. "Did you know they would sing like that? Jangling, like that, all chaos and warning and cold prophesy?"

Crowley can only shake his head. "Come on. Come on, let's get some food."

Aziraphale scoffs, fiddles with his scarf so that he has something to do. He is blinking too much, and his voice when he speaks is still too high, and there is a cold, shivery feeling in his chest that threatens to drive him completely mad and he isn't thinking _at all_. "Not like _we_ need food. We don't even know what it's like to die, we just come back. We never _really_ get hurt." Crowley hisses lowly, but Aziraphale doesn't hear. He babbles on, the past five years crashing through his mind and crushing his ability to think, and he raves for a full two minutes until he comes to, "and there were people _on_ _fire_ over there but _we_ can go through all these wars without ever getting burned and—"

And that is when he cuts himself off, eyes going wide in horror as he remembers _exactly_ who he's talking to.

Crowley is standing very still and stiff, gloved hands fisted at his sides, elbows tucked in close.

"Oh, God, _Crowley_—"

The gaze Crowley levels at him could cut glass. "Don't you_ ever_," he clips out, "speak to _me_ about _burning_." He turns on his heel and disappears into the pub across the street.

After a long moment, during which he draws a few deep, shuddering breaths, Aziraphale follows. Crowley says nothing when Aziraphale sits down beside him.

They sit in silence at the bar until the man behind it brings Aziraphale a drink he did not order. He relaxes very slightly. Crowley is not really angry with him, then.

"You blasphemed," says Crowley. He considers pretending everything is fine, decides against it. He could do it, but he's too tired, and anyway Aziraphale knows him too well to be fooled.

"Yes, I did. I didn't mean—it was only a metaphor, really, I didn't mean it like it sounded."

"I know." Crowley pauses. "I swear, I had no idea they would sing anything like that. It's only their second night doing this set."

"I know."

There is another, longer pause. "I really don't know why you get involved in all these wars," says Crowley finally. "I really don't. You cannot _possibly_ think that you're making a difference?"

Aziraphale stares into his glass, watches the mixture swirl inside, complex whorls and trails of smoke. "Not on a large scale, no."

"Then why even bother?" Crowley has been thinking about this for five years at least, and has not yet reached any sort of conclusion. "What's the point?"

"You're too much of a big-picture person," Aziraphale tells him. "I don't think you would understand."

"Try me."

Aziraphale shakes his head and drains his glass, signals for another. He tries to think of a way to say it so that a demon will understand, but he can't help wondering if it's folly even to try. Aziraphale himself doesn't really understand it.

"I can't stop them dying, or killing each other," he says at last. "But I can help, a little. I do what I can to keep them from hurting. It's all I can do."

"It hurts you."

Aziraphale misses Crowley's quiet inflection and shakes his head again. "Nothing they do can really hurt either of us."

It can't hurt _me_, Crowley thinks.

"Besides," Aziraphale says, "they need someone to care for them. The ones who are fighting are always so lost. No one cares about them. They die alone, in pain, and I can't think of a worse way to go than without someone holding onto you, who you can hold onto."

He colors, adds quickly, "And anyway, it's my job. People who die like that are a lot more likely to turn from God at the end. It's not too much to ask, is it, for a hand to hold as you die?"

And he misses, too, the way Crowley looks at him when he says that. By the time Aziraphale looks up from his drink, Crowley has turned back to his. His mind is full of thoughts he does not like—the ones that whisper to him as he falls asleep.

Worst of all and foremost in Crowley's mind, _What about me? Will you hold me as I die? Will you dare?_

And behind that, far behind, far beyond the realm of conscious thought, _Where were you when I Fell?_

Aziraphale heaves a sigh, startling Crowley out of his reverie. "So, what are your plans for the rest of the evening?"

Crowley does not have to think. "Go back to my flat and drink myself into a stupor."

There is a pause.

"Do you have plans?" Crowley asks.

Aziraphale smiles, laughs nervously. "Go back to your flat and drink myself into a stupor."

"Excellent," Crowley tells him, and stands. And grins. It is a little forced, but then, that's to be expected. "We're on the same page."

Hours later, pale morning sun filters over two bodies sprawled parallel across the same floor. Crowley is stretched full-length in front of his bay window, head pillowed on one arm, breathing long and slow in sleep. He has an empty bottle in one hand.

Aziraphale is curled beside him, which is doubly unusual because he is awake. Usually he leaves after Crowley goes to sleep, but not last night. He had too much to think about—too much to say, too much to leave unsaid. There is much they dare not say to each other, and there is much Aziraphale could not articulate even if he wanted to.

Aziraphale lets the backs of his fingers brush, feather-light, along a sharp cheekbone, and closes his eyes against burning tears.


	3. Chapter 3

Look who's still alive! :D

Someday, I will write one of these snapshots that is actually _cheerful_.

I forget how long ago I wrote this one – it was almost finished and then I just…sort of forgot it, I guess. I was digging through my "My Fanfic" folder and I found it again and finished it up. It isn't even particularly long.

Here go!

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><p><em>February, 1861 C.E.<br>__London, England – Soho_

Crowley, for once, does not bang open the door of the shop. He opens it, steps inside, and closes it behind him. That's what tells Aziraphale that Something Is Up. Or Down, considering.

He sheds his outer layers as he crosses the room – silk hat, scarf, gloves, jacket, waistcoat – loosens his tie, and then proceeds to pour himself onto the sofa and stretch out. "Hello," Aziraphale says, surprised, looking down at Crowley's head, which has suddenly appeared in his lap. "This is a new one."

Crowley doesn't open his eyes. "You were in my way."

"I was here first, and it's _my_ sofa," Aziraphale protests. He doesn't mind, exactly – he's far past the point where he really minds Crowley touching him; there's not much he can do about it. And he discovered long ago that if he lets on that it bothers him, Crowley will just do it more often. So instead of shoving the demon onto the floor, he sighs and rests his cup and saucer on the side of Crowley's head.

"Gerroff," Crowley mutters, swatting vaguely at the air. "Sss warm. Go '_way_."

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. "You're in my shop, you're on my sofa, you're in my _lap_. As God is my witness, if you go to sleep on me, I will pour this tea in your ear."

Far from the irritated reaction Aziraphale had been expecting, Crowley wriggles his shoulders, mutters something, and slides a sinewy arm around behind Aziraphale's back, wrapping the other around his middle in something distressingly similar to a hug. "Kay," he murmurs, and kicks off his muddy shoes, bending his knees so that he can curl his stocking feet comfortably into the cushions.

He's already asleep; he probably was when he came in. Crowley would never cuddle. Not willingly, not _consciously_. Aziraphale rolls his eyes. "Oh, for heaven's sake," he mutters. But he _had_ sworn, and a moment later Crowley bolts upright with a yell and Aziraphale's teacup goes flying.

Crowley scrubs frantically at his ear. "What," he hisses at Aziraphale, who wants very badly to laugh but instead manages to summon an impressively stern expression, "on _Earth_ did you just do to me."

Aziraphale sniffs. "I poured a few drops of tea down your left aural passage to wake you up. You were _snuggling_."

Crowley flicks off his sunglasses and scrubs a hand over his eyes, which are hollow and shadowed, more so than usual. "Was I? Thanksss, then."

Aziraphale pauses. "Dear. Your tongue. Fix it."

The forked tongue flickers out again, and Crowley blinks tired gold eyes at his associate. "Don't have the energy." He lies back down again, this time curling his upper body so that the back of his head and the tops of his shoulders are pressed against the side of Aziraphale's leg, and Aziraphale knows Crowley would rather die than do that on a normal day. Something is _definitely_ up.

"Where have you been? I haven't seen you in ages."

Crowley is quiet a minute. Then, "Had to go Below. Meetings 'n' sssuch. There's things going to happen this sssummer, in the Colonies. All been arranged."

"Things?" Aziraphale echoes, frowning. "Like a war, you mean?"

"Ssscratch the 'like' and you've got it," Crowley mumbles. He squirms his feet deeper in between the horsehair cushions. It's Aziraphale's best parlour sofa and Crowley is awfully muddy, but 'best' doesn't count for much when it comes to the shop. (Crowley's flat, conversely, is consistently immaculate. It's an odd dichotomy, but Aziraphale has long since given up fighting it.) "I've got to go over and do…things."

Aziraphale frowns harder and leans his head back. War. He isn't really surprised. He tends to face them with a vague sort of resignation.

"Any word from Above?" Crowley asks after a few minutes.

Aziraphale shakes his head. "No," he says, "nothing. I'll just do what I always do, I suppose."

"I hate this," Crowley says quietly. "I _hate_ it." When Crowley says he hates something, he usually means it. And nobody hates quite like a demon. Demons have raised hating to an art form.

"I know you do." Aziraphale is suddenly very, very tired. "I know. I…" _I hate it, too_, he wants to say, because he knows he should, but he would be lying if he did. He isn't sure he even knows how to hate. "This beautiful world," he murmurs, almost to himself. "I love it. I love everything in it. I love it so much it _hurts_. I shouldn't love it, I shouldn't. Crowley, it doesn't make sense." He lowers his hand to Crowley's hair without really meaning to, rests his palm on the damp black strands.

"I know you do." Crowley shuts his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose, and burrows deeper into the crease between Aziraphale's thigh and the sofa cushion. "You're an angel. 'Sss what you are, 'sss what you're made of." He pauses, then says quietly, "Well, that's one thing, at least."

Aziraphale glances down at him. "What is?"

"If I'm going to the colonies," says Crowley, slitting one dull gold eye open at Aziraphale, "at least I know you'll be there, too. That's something. It's _something_. Too much hate, angel, too much hate. I hate it. Right now I think I hate _everything_." He opens his other eye and looks steadily upwards, and Aziraphale notices that Crowley's eyes aren't just dull, they're actually cloudy. He's going to shed soon, and Aziraphale feels a sudden wash of something resembling righteous anger – for Hell to summon Crowley is bad enough, but to summon him while he's _shedding?_ It isn't _fair_. Crowley doesn't shed often, maybe once every two or three centuries; surely Hell could have waited a just a few months. "I hate hating. Aziraphale, kill me. I don't want—there's just too much."

He's asleep again, Aziraphale tells himself, because Crowley wouldn't say these things if he were awake. He simply wouldn't, not unless he was serious – but he must be serious, because he has just returned from Below _and_ he's shedding, both of which are situations during which Crowley wants nothing more than to be left alone to brood and sleep. But he's here, instead, with Aziraphale. _Touching_ Aziraphale, even.

Crowley keeps talking to the ceiling. His strong features might as well be blank marble for all the emotion in his face, and his jet-black hair against the pallor of his skin makes him look positively ill. He looks exhausted. Aziraphale pretends to shift a little bit on the couch, but he's actually feeling for…yes. He can feel the individual lumps of Crowley's vertebrae against his leg, and he knows that the demon has stopped eating again. Crowley usually eats less and ends up losing weight before he sheds, but he's _too_ thin this time and Aziraphale suspects that he's stopped eating entirely.

"Too much. I can't remember. And it's all right for you, because you can't hate, you don't know what it's like—but I remember being _able_ to love, even if I don't recall what that felt like."

Aziraphale looks at him and breaks a little bit, somewhere, deep inside. "That's enough," he says softly. "You don't have to remember, dear. You have me. I'll remind you."

Crowley chuckles, his marble face shifting to tired cynicism as his eyes slide closed. "Sssure. It'sss your job."

"Oh, hang my _job_," Aziraphale says, and strokes the black hair back and leans down and presses his lips, very briefly, to the smooth triangle of skin between Crowley's eyebrows. The demon's skin is like ice.

Slowly, Crowley's eyes slide back open again and he turns that unnervingly steady gaze back on Aziraphale, who moves his hands to cup both sides of Crowley's cold face. "What," Crowley says.

"You heard me," Aziraphale murmurs, and bends again and kisses him, this time, on the mouth. Crowley's lips are dry and cracked, but they part for him with a sigh.

Then Crowley moves, raises a hand, lifts a finger, plants the finger in the middle of Aziraphale's forehead and pushes him up a few inches. "What," he says again, flatly, "are you doing."

Aziraphale smiles at him, upside-down. "You're a _demon_," he says, softly scolding, but his eyes are full of laughter. "What do you _think_ I'm doing?" He brushes a thumb over the plane of Crowley's cheekbone. "I'll let you alone, if you want."

Crowley looks up at him, tired beyond belief and aching both in body and what passes for his heart. He doesn't have a soul, but if he had, he would ache there, too – Hell does that to you. He scowls a little, but he's too spent to really put much power behind it. "I hate you," he says quietly, and Aziraphale smiles.

"No you don't."

Crowley blinks once, slowly. His spine is twisted in a way that it had probably never been intended to do, but he's a serpent and a demon and he doesn't really even feel it, but he still moves on the couch until he's more or less lying on his back and he feels the muscles in his neck pull and twitch into relaxation. "No," he whispers, and closes his eyes, too tired even to argue. "I don't."

Soft fingers skip down the line of buttons on his shirt, lay him bare to the light of the fire on the hearth and in the angel's eyes. Warm hands on his chest, his neck, his face. Then a gathering of energy, a push, a rending of cloth, and when feathers brush his skin Crowley knows Aziraphale has just ruined another shirt and waistcoat. And when Aziraphale kisses him again, a lump crawls into Crowley's throat and stays there.

Aziraphale wraps a layer of heat around his hands, a cushion of warm air an inch or so thick, and cards his fingers through Crowley's hair, burrowing to the roots and stroking out until the demon's hair is dry and warm. That done, he gets to his feet, and Crowley opens his eyes, confused, but Aziraphale just takes his shoulders and pulls him further up on the sofa so that Crowley can stretch out without having to twist at any odd angles.

Aziraphale deftly removes both his tattered waistcoat and his shirt before crawling back onto the sofa and covering Crowley with his body, running his hands over Crowley's shadowed ribs and collarbones. "You're so _thin_," he whispers, frowning. "When did you eat last?"

He doesn't sound like he expects an answer, so Crowley doesn't bother giving him one. He does, however, sneak his hands up around the angel's back and bury his hands in the feathers, wrap his fingers around corded muscle and sinew. _Soft soft soft and warm and soft_. He is just tired enough to think that it's a good idea, and just out of his head enough to think that Aziraphale will let him. Because really. You don't touch an angel's wings if you're another _angel_, let alone a demon.

Aziraphale's hands go still, and he lifts his head to look at Crowley with wide eyes, and Crowley has just enough time to realize what he's doing and think, _Oh shit_. Then Aziraphale, incredibly, is kissing him again, frantically, wings arching back and splaying wide, pressing _into_ Crowley's hands.

He isn't running. He isn't attacking. He isn't even defending. Crowley has Aziraphale by the wings and Aziraphale is _kissing_ him.

Crowley decides not to think about that. Tries not to read too much into that. Those are dangerous waters, and he suspects he won't like what he finds there.

"I hardly think," Crowley gasps when Aziraphale comes up for air, and strokes out along the angel's wings, rubs his fingers dazedly through the feathers, "that this is part of your job."

Aziraphale smiles and goes for Crowley's ear, licking and exhaling hot against sensitive skin. "Okay," he says.

"Wasn't an answer," Crowley manages, and then Aziraphale is _biting_ and Crowley actually squeaks.

"Was," Aziraphale insists, and Crowley doesn't argue.

… … … …

In the morning, Aziraphale wakes nude on his side on the sofa. When he opens his eyes, still half-asleep, Crowley is nowhere in sight and the hearth is dark and cold. Aziraphale isn't disappointed – he had never expected Crowley to stay the night.

He starts to get up, then stops. Something is…different. He looks down, sees nothing, moves again, stops again.

Then he grins and lifts a hand to his neck, feels cool, smooth scales. _Crowley_. The demon is either asleep or unconscious, Aziraphale isn't sure which; either way, he's looped around Aziraphale's neck in snake form.

Aziraphale stands and dresses with care, forgoing his tie and waistcoat and leaving his top two buttons undone, and then he sits back down and picks up the book he had abandoned last night. Crowley doesn't take long to respond once Aziraphale has his clothes on; the linen keeps enough heat in to rouse a snake, but for a short while Aziraphale is able to read in peace.

Crowley comes awake with an irritated fizzing hiss, then slides down Aziraphale's arm and over his book and onto the floor. He is brilliant green, and Aziraphale suspects that if he searches later there will be a length of dead snakeskin between two of his cushions.

Crowley in man-form is still marble-pale, but his hair is dry and clean and his gold eyes are clear. "Why in the name of Earth didn't you wake me up?" is the first thing out of his mouth.

"Clothes, dear," is the first thing out of Aziraphale's, and he points without looking up to a pile of clean, folded clothing on the side table.

Crowley snaps his fingers, and the pile on the side table disappears. So does most of Crowley's exposed skin, much to Aziraphale's relief. He looks up at the demon, trying not to smirk.

"You just looked so _peaceful_," Aziraphale says. He can't resist, and okay, yes, now he _is_ smirking; he can't help it.

"I'm a demon," Crowley snaps. _There's one for a stained-glass window_, he thinks. _A smirking angel_. "We don't _do_ 'peaceful.'"

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, sticks out his tongue.

Crowley sniffs, and it's a tribute to how tired he really is that all he can come up with in response is, "I prefer toilet paper." He knows as soon as it's out that it had been the wrong thing to say.

Up go Aziraphale's eyebrows, and his smirk turns into a grin. "Really?" he says mildly. "I actually would not have guessed that. Well, I'll make a note. Good morning." And he turns back to his book, turns a page. He would have looked entirely unperturbed, but there are two bright spots high on each cheekbone.

Crowley stares at him, torn between chagrin and grudging respect. He hadn't thought Aziraphale had it in him. "You know, sometimes I think you've gone mad."

Aziraphale sticks a thumb in his book and shuts it so that he can look up at Crowley. "Sometimes," he replies, "I think I might be _going_ mad. And then sometimes I think we both are, or already have. And then other times I think maybe we're the only sane two in all of Creation." He shrugs. "It depends. When are you leaving?"

He doesn't mean the shop, and Crowley knows it. "A week from Tuesday. There's a ship going by way of Greenland."

"Ah," says Aziraphale, and opens his book again. "Excellent. Lunch on Friday?"

Crowley thinks for a moment, nods. "That should work. The usual?"

"But of course."

Crowley has the door to the shop open and is halfway out when Aziraphale speaks again. "You'll be all right?"

Aziraphale's tone is still light, still teasing, but there's a note of real concern underneath it and Crowley turns and fixes the angel with his very best glare. "_Shut_ _up_," he growls, and has just enough time to see Aziraphale's laughing smile blaze out like sunrise before the door slams behind him.


End file.
